What Should Be
by Pugglemuggle
Summary: A spin on Dean's "wish-verse" from "What Is and What Should Never Be" in which small-town mechanic Dean and former charity employee Castiel find themselves stuck together on a flight from Pontiac, Illinois to Los Angeles, California, and, well... anything could happen, couldn't it?


At least it hasn't been delayed.

Dean Winchester watches the screen of scrolling times and places, tracking the tiny words "Houston" and "6:15" and "On Time" as they disappear off the side of the display, out of sight. A quick glance down at his ticket and— yes, Flight 401 from Pontiac, Illinois to Houston, Texas is scheduled to depart at 6:15 PM, December 24th.

The terminal is actually fairly empty. He finds himself fidgeting with the corner of his boarding pass, folding and unfolding it until he's dog-eared it more than a cheap motel bible. He isn't nervous about flying. That's something he'd taken care of years ago, with the help of his dad. His dad had been nothing if not good at teaching him and Sammy how to deal with their shit. Ten years later and Sammy, the Stanford graduate, is almost a full-fledged lawyer, just buying a first home with his fiancée in Los Angeles and inviting the whole family down to see it. If that wasn't a success on Dad's art then Dean didn't know what was.

Dean pointedly puts aside his boarding pass, listens to Metallica through tiny overworked earbuds, and waits.

* * *

_Please check all bags that exceed our baggage requirements for carry-ons. Be sure to attach identification labels to each of your checked bags._

* * *

Just as boarding begins, a slim man blusters into the terminal. His dark hair is a mess, his tie backwards, and he's carrying his coat slung over his arm, apparently not having had enough time after security to put it back on. When he reaches the line he's still rebuckling his belt.

"Excuse me, is this the flight to Houston?" the disheveled man asks the older woman standing in front of Dean. The bag the man is carrying has to be pushing the limit to allowable carry-ons, because Dean's not even sure how it's going to fit in the overhead compartment.

"Um, yes," the woman replies, not unkindly. "What's your seat number?"

He looks a little helpless, pulling out a crumpled boarding pass from the pocket of his slacks. "I believe it says 401, but—"

"Oh honey, that's the flight number. Here— Let me take a look at it."

He hands her the piece of paper, and she takes it, glancing at the type for a moment before handing it back with a smile. "You're seat 53-B, so you get to stand in between me and this young man here."

Dean realizes they're talking about him a moment before they both turn around to look. He raises his hand up in a small half-wave motion and grins without teeth. "Hey."

"Hello," the man says. His voice is lower than Dean would have expected. "Are you… 53-C?"

"You know, usually people just call me Dean, but '53-C' works too," Dean jokes, but he can't help the way his eyes flicker just behind the new passenger, where he can see the plane outside the airport window. He grins anyway; airplane or no airplane, Dean likes to be charming, and being bisexual gives him twice as many opportunities, if he wants them. "Do you go by 53-B, or is there another name I can use?"

"Oh," he says, as though he hadn't anticipated anyone asking such a question. "My name is Castiel. It's nice to meet you, Dean."

"Yeah, you too." Then Castiel offers a hand, and Dean shakes it. "Looks like you and me are going to be neighbors for the next three hours."

"I suppose so."

And then the line starts moving.

* * *

_In case there is a loss in cabin pressure, yellow oxygen masks will deploy from the ceiling compartment located above you. Please make sure to secure your own mask before assisting others._

* * *

He has an aisle seat, which is good. The plane is being taken to the runway now; he can feel the movement, see the scrubby Illinois shrubs passing by through every window, even if they aren't in the air yet. He tries closing his eyes and just letting the sound of good ol' Led Zeppelin wash over him, but then someone bashes into his elbow while trying to swing a suitcase into one of the overhead compartments. All he's able to get through is the first three minutes or so of "What Is and What Should Never Be" before a flight attendant taps him on the shoulder and says that All Electronics Must Be Stowed At This Time. He's putting his iPod away into his duffel bag just when the first jolt of takeoff makes him grip the arm rest a little tighter than he needed to, the thundering of the jets drowning out the "Shit" he didn't mean to say.

"You're headed to Houston, then?"

Dean looks up, and it's Castiel, his three-hour neighbor. He's really not interested in conversation right now of all times, but he replies all the same. "Uh, no, actually," Dean says. "I have a connecting flight from—" He feels the plane lift off the ground, and it's like the world is trying to press him flat. "—from, uh, Houston to… LA. So, LA, actually."

"So do I," says Castiel.

"Really?" Dean hears himself saying, but all he can focus on is feeling like he's being crushed by the force of the takeoff, and the fact that they're not on the ground, that they're _flying_, in the _air_, and he knows, _knows_, that far fewer people die in plane crashes each year than in car wrecks, and that he's probably safer now than when he'd been driving to the airport this morning, but that doesn't stop the humiliating, insuppressible feeling of panic deep in his chest, urgent and insistent, demanding recognition.

He thinks he hears Castiel say something about going to see family, so when the other man asks, "What about you, Dean?" he thinks he has an idea of how to respond.

"I've got some family to visit, too," he says. "My brother's got a new house in Los Angeles with his—" The plane jerked a little. He knows he's rambling, but he can't stop now. "—with his, uh, his fiancée, this chick called Jess. So we—the whole family—we're all coming down to visit them for Christmas and check out the new place. He's a smart kid—got a full-ride to Stanford, and now he's in law school. He's got this internship or something at a law firm, and as soon as he gets his law degree, he says he's pretty much got a confirmed spot in the office."

"He's lucky," says Castiel, matter-of-factly, "to have a brother who cares so much."

"What?" he says. The plane is starting to level out, transitioning into a tolerable cruising speed that's a little easier for Dean to handle.

"I just mean that your brother is lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do," Castiel replies.

That strikes him as sort of a weird thing to say, so Dean tries to change the subject away from himself and 'brotherly love'. "What about you? Do you have any brothers?"

Castiel chuckles quietly in a way that makes Dean think whatever he's laughing at isn't actually funny. "I have far too many brothers," he says simply, blue eyes downcast. "I'm not on the best terms with them at the moment."

"How come?" Dean asks, and then stops, because what Castiel said is _not_the sort of question that invites further comment. Just as he's about to do some major backtracking, though, Castiel replies.

"My family owns a very large charity organization. To quit your job was to alienate yourself from them. I didn't think that a charity organization was the most effective way of helping people, so I went on leave. Now I think I'm going to quit officially."

That was actually serious. Dean isn't exactly sure how to reply to something like that, so he just says appreciatively, "Wow. Count me impressed," and allows the conversation to drop off. They fall into a comfortable silence, for now.

* * *

_Please make sure all carry-on items are stored in the overhead bins, or under the seat in front of you._

* * *

Over some corn field in southern Illinois, the flight attendant asks about complementary drinks. Dean isn't going to buy beer, because it's expensive and probably really shitty, so he settles for a Coke instead. Castiel orders water.

"You're not a health-nut, are you?" Dean asks him, an eyebrow raised.

"No," replies Castiel. "I'm… too fond of fast food, I think."

Dean gets to talking about Sam again, and how both he and Jess only eat organic food, and then Castiel adds that he grew up to a very typical American diet, and there aren't really any health-nuts in his family.

"Well, besides my father, I suppose, when he was alive," Castiel amends.

"Yeah, not my dad," he replies. "When he was still around, it was burgers and fries every day. Probably why the stroke got him in the end.

Castiel nods, but doesn't try to apologize, and neither does Dean. He's insanely grateful for that, because finally, here's someone who gets it.

* * *

Over some highlands in Missouri ("The Ozark Plateau," the older woman at the window seat said) Dean learns that Castiel has never been exposed to good music.

"What are you listening to?" Castiel asks. Dean has one earbud in, the other out, enjoying the music without discouraging conversation.

"Uh… Led Zeppelin, mostly, and Aerosmith. A little Metallica, a little AC/DC, some Motorhead… Black Sabath…"

Castiel gives him a blank look.

"Seriously? You don't recognize any of them?"

"I…can't say I've heard their music, though the names sound familiar," Castiel says apologetically. He actually looks sorry, the poor guy.

So Dean takes out his headphones and iPod, finds his favorite playlist, and hands them over. Castiel hesitates, which means Dean has to set them deliberately into the other man's hand in a gesture that surprises himself almost as much as it surprises Castiel.

"There, culture yourself a little," he says quickly, taking his hands back, because he thinks they might have lingered a bit too long. "If I let you get off this plane without at least listening to Zep's "Ramble On" then I'd probably be arrested."

Castiel gingerly turns over the black iPod in his hand and turns his gaze back upward, looking Dean in the eye. "Thank you, Dean," he says, his voice full of just as much gravity and sincerity as if Dean had been the one to push Castiel out of the way of a speeding car, or given him the keys to a new house.

"Really, don't mention it," Dean says. Then he carefully puts the earbuds in, presses play, Dean's listening closely enough to hear the distorted words "_Leaves are falling all around, it's time I was on my way_" before Castiel turns the volume down a little.

* * *

Something about Castiel makes him easy to talk to. Maybe it's a combination of things: his need for entertainment, his need for company, especially his need for a distraction from flight. But maybe it's the way Castiel listens, silent and attentive, like he wants to catch every word and use them all to rewrite the world. Maybe, if he admits it to himself, it's a little bit because of his lips and his jawline and his blue eyes, not like the sky and not like the sea, but somewhere in between on the horizon. Dean has never been one for metaphors or similes, but if he was, he might be able to explain it all better. In the meantime, Castiel is simply good company with a nice face and a 5:00 shadow, and he doesn't seem to mind being talked to.

* * *

_Please make sure you seatbelt is securely fastened at this time. To fasten, insert the loose metal buckle into the holder. Tighten so it fits firmly around your waste._

* * *

Over some mountains in Arkansas, Castiel decides he needs to go use the restroom. Dean's about to stand up to give him more room, but a light touch on his shoulder keeps him firmly rooted in place. "It's fine," Castiel says. "Don't move on my account."

And then he shuffles by in front of him, brushing Dean's knees with the backs of his legs and giving Dean a clear view of his ass. He could tell you that he didn't stare, but if he did, he'd be lying.

* * *

Landing is also extremely unnerving for Dean, but he gets through it the same way he always gets through things: by acting as normal as possible and talking someone's ear off. This time he rambles about growing up in Lawrence, Kansas and the new job he's taken seven hours away in Pontiac. He isn't even sure why chose the topic, only that it seems to be helping him shove the panic back down. When they finally landed, his palms are sweaty and his knuckles are white, but otherwise he's okay. It's a fucking relief to be back on solid ground.

The seatbelt light has just been turned off when Castiel asks, timidly, "In the case that we have the same flight to Los Angeles, do you know how to get to the next terminal?

"Not off the top of my head," Dean replies, moving into the aisle to take Castiel's huge bag from the overhead compartment. "You should stick with me while we look for it. We've got a two-hour layover, so I really don't think we're going to run out of time."

"Okay," says Castiel. "I shouldn't worry too much, then, if we have so much time."

"Yeah, well—" Dean checks his watch. "—it's already about nine o'clock, and I haven't eaten anything. What do you think about getting some crappy airport food?"

"I think that sounds like a good idea."

It's only when they've gotten off the plane, found the terminal, sat down at a tiny airport bistro, that Dean realizes this is basically a date. The strangest part is that he's actually pleased.

* * *

They talk the same way now as they did on the airplane. The only difference is that Dean is feeling a little more relaxed, now that his feet are on the ground and food is on his plate. They both have burgers and fries. This is the first time in a long while that he's traveled with anyone who doesn't give him a look when he orders it with extra bacon and cheese.

Dean finds out that Castiel knows everything there is to know about people like Gandhi and Nelson Mandela. He likes cooking his own food, but doesn't know how, and he works at a soup kitchen on Sundays instead of going to church, like he used to. He says he's been bordering on agnostic since his dad died. He just can't seem to reconcile the world's suffering with a benevolent God.

Dean also discovers that Castiel has a sense of humor. It's subtle, hidden in a pause or a smirk or a small sarcastic comment. Every time he catches one he feels like he's stumbling onto a silver mine.

Castiel gets to know more about Sam, of course, and Jess too, and Ellen and Jo and Bobby, and Mom, and Dad, or at least what he'd been like while he was alive. He talks about the guys at the garage, and going out for drinks on Fridays, and some of the stories they come home with.

He's just about to start telling the story of the bull-riding machine when he notices that their terminal across the hall has started lining up to board. Despite Castiel's earnest protests, Dean insists on paying their bill, which really isn't that much. He's not sure what Castiel's making such a fuss about.

"Don't worry about it, Cas," he says. "It's my treat."

* * *

_If cabin visibility is reduced, lighted strips along the floor of the cabin will lead you to the nearest escape hatch. Remember, red lights mark an exit._

* * *

Unfortunately they're not neighbors on this flight.

Dean's sitting three rows behind Cas, in an aisle seat again, and all he can see is that Cas' dark, tousled head bend forward slightly, like he's reading a book or something. A few people are trickling in, but for the most part, the plane actually seems pretty empty. By the time they close the plane, half the seats are still empty. There must not be many people willing to make a flight to LA at 11:00 PM on Christmas Eve.

Dean gets an idea at the same time as the captain puts the seatbelt lights on, directions he ignores in favor of a much better plan. He makes sure that the flight attendant is facing the other way, and then grabs his duffel bag out from under the seat in front of him and steals up the aisle.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks Castiel, whose row is empty. Cas puts away his book and looks up.

"I was just thinking about going back to your row if you hadn't come up here," Cas says. Dean grins and takes the aisle seat.

"I'm really glad you said that."

* * *

He doesn't know where they are or what time zone they're in, but when his watch beeps midnight, he hears Cas murmur, quietly, because it's a red-eye flight, "Merry Christmas, Dean."

* * *

Of course, Dean knows he won't be able to sleep on a plane. Talking with Cas makes it a little easier, but no amount of conversation is going to make him relaxed enough to find some rest. He thinks Cas drifts off though, at about a quarter to one. He's listening to "Traveling Riverside Blues" when he glances over and sees that Cas is sitting leaned back in his chair, head back, looking uncomfortable but asleep. He feels a little weird, seeing Cas when he's like this. Looking at anyone while they're asleep is a little weird.

He tries not to think about it too much.

About midway through "In My Time of Dying" he feels a pressure on his side, and then a head on his shoulder, and he freezes. Time slows down. He loses track of the music altogether. Sam did this once, years ago, and Dean had shoved him off and teased him for a week, but that really doesn't seem appropriate right now, not for Cas. If he really wanted to, he could move Cas gently, help him to lean on the other side, where there's nothing but empty seat.

He doesn't. He lets Cas sleep.

* * *

"Attention, ladies and gentleman," says the voice of the pilot over the intercom. "Unfortunately due to weather complications at Los Angeles this flight is being diverted to Phoenix. We'll be landing in about a quarter of an hour."

Dean pulls out his headphones and looks at the mixture of groggy, infuriated, and despairing faces around him. Next to him, Cas stirs awake.

"Phoenix?"

Dean sighs and shrugs. "Guess so."

* * *

As soon as the plane lands, they decide not to take the complementary bus to the nearby hotel to wait for the next flight out. Phoenix isn't too far away from Los Angeles; if a guy drives quickly, he could get there in about five hours or so.

"Do you want to rent a car and drive there ourselves?" he asks Cas. "We could split the rental cost, and the gas."

The other man looks totally exhausted, besides the fact that he was the only one between the two of them to get any sleep. He nods a little, rubbing the back of his head in a way that makes his hair even more chaotic. "That seems like a good plan," he says eventually, "as long as neither of us checked any bags,"

Dean snorted. "I didn't. I travel light. Did you…?"

"No," Cas said. "My carry-on was large enough for me to fit everything I needed."

And Dean laughed, because there was something he could definitely agree with.

A half an hour later, it's 2:15 AM, and they're taking a Pontiac Sunfire on I-10 west to the City of Angels.

* * *

Sometimes there's music playing, and sometimes there isn't. It depends on whether or not Dean is driving, and they try to switch often. They talk a little bit, but mostly they listen to the music and watch the dark dessert in front of them.

* * *

About an hour and a half in, Cas falls asleep to "Stairway to Heaven". Dean can't help glancing at him more often than he should.

* * *

_And as we wind on down the road  
Our shadows taller than our soul._

* * *

He doesn't want to wake Cas up, but he doesn't think he can stay awake much longer. A glance at his watch says that it's 4:16 AM, and while he's stayed up later before, it's been a while. He woke up at about five this morning to take the early shift at the garage, so in another forty-five minutes or so, he'll have been awake for a full 24 hours. He's probably not in a good state to be driving.

"Hey Cas," he murmurs. He gets a shift and a yawn.

"…Yes, Dean?"

He hesitates before asking, "Do you think we can stop and get a hotel?"

* * *

There's a little town called Blythe, just past the border between Arizona and California. He'd already called Sam earlier to make sure he didn't try to pick Dean up at the airport, but he calls him again to tell him he's getting a hotel before they pull into the Motel 6 parking lot. At the front desk, a very tired-looking receptionist lets them split the price of a room and hands them a room key, so they take their stuff out of the car and go up to Room 213.

After that, he really couldn't tell you how it happened.

There's a bit of a corner, in between the main part of the room and the tiny hallway that leads between the room door and the bathroom. Cas is coming out of the bathroom, and Dean is coming from the other direction, and they're tired enough that they don't even notice the other is there until they nearly run into each other. They manage not to crash, but they come close, and now they're still close, because neither of them has backed away yet.

"It's Christmas morning," Cas says finally. "What do you think?"

Dean considers for a moment. Cas is looking at him, staring, even, and he doesn't turn away. What Cas said doesn't make sense, really, but Dean understands anyway. What do you think? What do you want to do? It's Christmas morning; anything could happen. Last chance, Dean Winchester, before we go our separate ways. What do you think?

Dean thinks: "I'm going to regret this."

Dean thinks: "So?"

Dean thinks: "Fuck it."

They make out.

* * *

Long after shirts are unbuttoned, buckles undone, and trousers discarded; long after bodies are pressed against cheap motel doors and cheap motel walls and cheap motel beds, after the bodies press back, after they touch and slide and feel; long after mouth explores mouth, and words meet hot breath, and moans twist air and brush ears; long after even more articles of clothing find themselves abandoned on the floor, forgotten, no longer concealing the fire or the feeling or the fervor; long after sheets coil within clenched fingers, knuckles white, muscles taught, straining forward, straining back, not too far but far enough; long after pressure builds, and toes curl, and after names are whispered, and after hands touch arms, thighs, hips, sides, faces; long after everything else goes still, everything disappears, everything is drowned away by the rush of the final flood of _yes_; long after they curl up close and warm and sleepy, after they fall still, and stars shine and then wink away, one by one, and the night ends, they are awoken by the glow of early California sunlight, shining bright through windows with undrawn curtains.

"Merry Christmas," says Dean.

* * *

When they leave the hotel that morning, Dean behind the wheel, Castiel calls his brother's house. He tells him that he's quitting the job, permanently, and that he would have told him in person, but something has popped up, and he can't. Dean thinks that there are other parts of the conversation he's missing, but he doesn't mind. Three hours goes by fast.

* * *

From what Dean can see on the outside, Sam and Jess' new house looks gorgeous. It doesn't have a picket fence, but there is a white trim all along the edges, and a perfect California lawn, and a two-car garage. Dean takes it all in, and feels almost hysterically happy that his brother, Sammy, the kid who gave him the prizes out of the cereal boxes and asked for a bedtime story until he was eleven, could have _all this_. If anyone deserved it, he knew it was Sam.

"Should we go inside?" Castiel asks, quiet.

"Yeah," Dean replies. "Yeah, let's go."


End file.
